When I was a young, impressionable Hair C*ntery, I first came across this poem and it changed my life. It gave me the freedom to be the impossibly selfish and socially irresponsible hasher that you all know and . . . let’s say, tolerate, today. I took the drop the dishes mantra to heart and I encourage you to do the same.

Hate the chore you’re doing? Do it really half-assed. Not terribly excited about the date you’re on? Be an exceptionally intolerable and crappy date. Harangued during circle into writing a trail write-up for a trail you didn’t really pay attention to and hope to never be asked to write a trail write-up again? Drop a steaming turd of a write-up, hastily written, and submitted late in the week. BOOM. Nobody wants to have anything to do with you anymore. Looks like someone’s schedule just became a lot clearer for beer drinking, wanking, and generally fucking-off.

So without further ado, let’s get down to the recap. This week’s trail, run number (something or other, you know, because I’m lazy and I don’t want you to get your hopes up), was out in the Dagon area of Yangon, or so I’m told. Dagon is famous for it’s lesser known Myanmar beer, some undrinkable malty beverage soft drink that is used to poison dehydrated hashers, and apparently a university. Before departing the gathering spot, the pack was told we were starting near or around Dagon University. Thankfully, half the drivers ignored those directions and found the starting area without problem. The other drivers, apparently not aware that listening to Bobo, is the riskiest part of any trail drove around aimlessly for a half an hour before miraculously stumbling upon a gathering of scantily dressed Westerners. As luck would have it, those dead-eyed, mouth-breathing Westerners were the rest of the pack. Even with the delay, only one hare was accounted for. The other hare was assumed to be dead or missing and was only briefly mourned. Soon, after random acts of roadside micturition and speechifying the pack was off.

Now here is where my recollection gets a little hazy. It’s Friday morning, and sure, I could have begun writing this thing earlier, but now I don’t remember much of the trail. I remember that we started off with a false trail through some haphazard village garbage site. Shortly after that the hare yelled at us for being a lazy pack and not checking far enough at the next check. Duly chastened the pack ran through some fields, onto a road, and since I’m just making things up, let’s say maybe through another village. This is rural Yangon; there are a lot of villages.

As far as I can recall, not a lot happened after that. Maybe we ran through some fields. Did someone step in cow dung? Sure, why not. Let’s say it was you. Oh remember all the laughs we had when you stepped in that dung. Good times. After that some more villages and fields (again, it’s Myanmar) until we got to our 1st Beer Stop. HOORAY! And miraculously, at our 1st Beer Stop we ran into our other hare who was somehow alive and well. At this point, the pack began to notice that both hares had suspiciously muddy legs for a trail that, to this point, was rather dry. Rumbles of discontent filtered through the crowd and rumors spread about wilder parts of the trail to come. Soon, however, the pack was distracted by cold beer, soda, water, and trying to hit on one another. And as is the hash custom, Bobo called on-on while I was halfway through my beer.

The next part of the trail I can only remember as hot and unpleasant; a fitting description of many of our harriettes. The sun was beating down the pack from above and our ankles were constantly under threat as we ran through the dried out ruts of hoof prints. At one point, a group of FRBs surprised a small family of cows who began to stampede in the opposite direction. Much like the rest of the pack, they were blissfully unaware that the running trail was marked by shredded paper and were soon left behind.

After the fields, we came upon another village. This village was followed by a field. And another field. And a village. Soon, I was overcome by feelings of pastoral bliss. In haste, I began to compose a poem, Lines Written a Few Miles Above a Second Beer Check:

“Five fields have past; five back checks, with the length

Of five long villages! and again I hear

The on-on, rolling like a mountain-spring

With a sweet inland murmur.”

Thankfully, before I could finish we found the second beer check and we were treated to a lovely view of Tintern Abbey a fishing cottage surrounded by water buffalo. In toto, the pack consumed three full cups of beer, shattering the long-standing hash record of 2.45 cups consumed on March 11, 2002.

Shortly, we found ourselves in the mud fields that were prophesied at the first beer check. I won’t lie to you, dear reader, it was ugly. Roadrunner and a handful of FRBs, decided that they could zen the trail and went bounding off into the ether. We assume they made it back to circle, but no one cared enough to check. The hares herded the rest of the pack like cats (bunnies herding cats?) across the mud flats and narrowly avoided all manner of poisonous snakes.

It turned out that this mud field was just the amuse-bouche of the trail’s muddy finale. After a few twists and turns, the pack found themselves staring down at a pit of waist-high mud and despair that challenged the constitution of even the hardiest hasher. The pack pleaded to the hares, the gods, and ultimately the mudpit itself for mercy. But the mudpit was unforgiving.

Haltingly, hesitantly, and half-assedly, the pack crossed the dank stanky gunk. Shoes, of old hashers and new, were devoured and never seen again. In a misguided attempt at chivalry, rarely in favor at the hash, a young man rescued a shoe that new hasher Angela, had left as an offering to Lord Mudpit. This angered Lord Mudpit who took both shoes of a walking hasher as retribution.

Mercifully, the trail ended soon after the crossing o’ the mud. At least for the runners that is. Many of the walkers had somehow gotten lost along the way. Perhaps they were delayed by thoughts of reverie and bliss in field #9 or village #14.

The hares kindly provided the pack with baby wipes and trash bags to clean/discard/store the shoes and articles of clothing that were not taken by Lord Mudpit or discarded along the way. Then there was beer, which made the whole thing almost worth the effort.

The circle was held in the dark. We had a handful of virgins, a handful of visitors, and a handful of random charges. Thanks to the aforementioned beer, this is the best I can do for recollection. At the end of circle I was tasked to write this damned thing up. I duly submit my best effort to drop all the dishes on the floor.

– Hair C*ntery

Today in History

1758 – Mustard was advertised for the first time in America.

1898 – The USS Maine sank when it exploded in Havana Harbor for unknown reasons. More than 260 crew members were killed.

1900 – The British threaten to use natives in their war with the Boers.